Californij 

3gional 

icility 


THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 
OF  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 


SONS    OF    GOD    AND 
DAUGHTERS   OF  MEN 


BY 
GERTRUDE  HELENA  URBAN 


BOSTON 

SHERMAN,    FRENCH    &    COMPANY 
1912 


COPYRIGHT,  1912 
SHERMAN,  FRENCH  &»  COMPANY 


TO 

JOHN  STUART  MILL 


GOD  knows  we  honour  thee  that  from  high  rank 
Didst  stoop  to  theme  held  poor  for  sage  or  seer; 
With  valiant  tome  to  hallow  lowlier  sphere 
In  consecration,  just,  and  stern,  and  frank! 
Sad  sage,  that  from  the  cup  of  quiet  drank 
Sad  serious  sage,  our  onliest  friend — nay  here 
We  greet  all  friends  that  proffered  us  good  cheer, 
And  in  thy  name  we  give  to  all  our  thank ! 
God  knows  we  honour  thee  and  hold  thee  dear, 
And  in  the  whirling  world  that  spurns  the  dead, 
And  in  the  operose  life  that  must  forget, 
Sometimes  a  quiet  hour  comes  when  yet 
We  know,  for  all  the  cypress  waving  o'er  thy  bed, 
Thy  grave  is  in  our  hearts,  and  thou  art  near. 


1051946 


The  subjection  of  woman  has  involved  the  ma- 
ternalizing  of  the  male.  Under  its  bonds  he  has 
been  forced  into  new  functions,  impossible  to  male 
energy  alone.  He  has  learned  to  love  and  care 
for  someone  besides  himself.  He  has  had  to  learn 
to  work,  to  serve,  to  be  human.  It  should  not  be 
considered  as  an  extreme  maternal  sacrifice,  but 
as  a  novel  and  thorough  system  of  paternal  sacri 
fice — the  male  of  genus  homo  coerced  into  the  ex 
pression  of  maternal  energy  .  .  .  Races  there 
were  and  are  which  reproduce  themselves  without 
the  masculine  organism  by  hermaphroditism  and 
parthenogenesis.  But  it  has  been  proven  better 
for  the  race  to  have  two  highly  developed  parents 
rather  than  one.  The  elevation  of  the  male  to 
full  racial  equality  has  involved  her  temporary 
subjection.  Now  that  the  world  is  no  longer  bene 
fited  by  her  subordination,  she  is  coming  steadily 
out  into  direct  personal  expression,  into  the  joy 
of  racial  action  in  full  freedom. 

CHARLOTTE  PERKINS  STETSON. 


FOREWORD 

As  this  book  of  verse,  the  result  of  a  youthful 
impulse  acted  upon  without  disciplined  formula 
tion,  is  offered  the  public  in  my  maturity,  I  offer 
with  it  some  apologies,  not  for  the  content  or  tone, 
but  for  the  presentation.  Development  and  wider 
reading  have  since  taught  me  much,  but  not,  as  yet, 
the  restraint  to  forego  an  unauthorized  theme  and 
purpose,  the  control  of  the  sonnet  form,  nor  cre 
ative  visualizing  and  the  manipulation  of  the 
concrete  symbol.  One  hope  remains,  however,  that 
the  passionate  sincerity  of  youth,  with  some  of  its 
fire  and  spontaneity  (if  these  are  not  as  foreign 
to  the  sonnet  as  is  didacticism  to  verse  in  gen 
eral)  may  be  ameliorating,  though  never  redeem 
ing,  features. 

As  to  the  declaration  of  faith  and  its  emotional 
aspects,  maturity  has  brought  no  change.  Dar 
win  and  Spencer,  among  others  in  the  nineteenth 
century,  have  furthered  the  ancient  theory  of 
woman's  inferiority;  Wolff  wrote  to  reveal  her 
"anatomical  beastiality" ;  and  Weininger,  in  the 
twentieth,  claims  proof  that  woman  and  prostitute 
are  one  and  the  same,  with  the  mother,  as  a  phe 
nomenon,  the  lowest  form.  Added  to  the  general 
concept  of  inferiority,  and  the  special  world-view 
that  woman  is  not  an  end  in  herself,  but  merely 
the  means  to  an  end:  the  race  (unlike  man,  who  is 
both  means  and  end)  is  the  uninterested,  compla 
cent,  or  enthusiastic  acceptance  of  these  views  by 
woman's  "natural  protectors,"  and  the  difficulties, 
negative  or  other,  they  have  placed  in  the  way  of 
her  efforts  to  cope  with  them. 

It  is  clear  that  these  verses  are  not  concerned, 


save  indirectly,  with  the  matter  of  legal  recogni 
tion  of  equality  for  the  sexes.  As  that  involved, 
issue,  however,  is  now  before  the  world  of  men, 
still  reluctant  and  without  faith,  these  belated 
verses  may  yet  be  opportune.  And  as  the  indiffer 
ence  and  opposition  of  men  (infinitely  considerate 
of  the  physical  needs  of  women)  to  woman  as  an 
egoity,  will  be  as  disappointing  after  the  state 
grants  her  citizenship,  as  before  that  long  fought 
for  recognition,  I  am  ready,  if  necessary,  to  sell 
my  soul  as  an  artist,  and  to  take  a  humbler  rank 
as  a  sign  of  the  times. 

G.  H.  U. 


PART  I 


IF  one  should  read  the  page  where  I  inlay 

A  word  for  those  of  us,  that  differing,  stood 

For  what  to  us  is  beautiful  and  good, 

I  doubt  not  he  will  waive  the  sheet,  and  say: 

"Here  spoke  a  woman  in  unlovely  way ; 

Her  lip  not  moulded  into  plenitude 

A  tender  music,  as  with  woman  should ; 

Her  tongue  it  is  not  sweet,  nor  me  may  sway." 

Go  read  where  you  my  languishings  lament 

And  tell  me  that  no  purpose  mine  to  fill 

The  lips  with  silent,  or  with  told,  dissent. 

"She  pleases  not,  unsmiling  thus  to  go ; 

And  none  content,"  you  say,  "could  speak  thus 

ill." 
And  I:     "Even  so,  my  friend,  even  so,  even  so." 


n 


Have   patience,   Mother,   though  thy   children 

fail 

In  thy  large  calm,  and  teach  us  even  how 
Even  thine  own  feet  found  but  one  step  enow 
So  that  they  bore  thee  through  thy  chosen  vale. 
We  know  that  to  the  last  we  shall  assail 
Thy  law  and  speak  the  idle,  hollow  vow 
To  walk  without  thee,  while  against  thy  brow 
We  lay  the  face  life  darkened,  death  made  pale. 
Teach  us,  O  Mother,  thy  serenity, 
That  brought  us  forth  in  tranquil  faith,  with 

smile. 

Though  cold  we  turn  away  from  thy  decree, 
In  humble  love  thou  boldest  each  the  while. 
So  let  thy  children  come  again  to  thee 
Impartial  Mother;  thou  shalt  reconcile. 


[2] 


Ill 


Hear  us,  thy  children,  that  doubt-driven  come 

From  our  Gehenna  to  thy  willing  knee; 

We  know  thy  lap  hath  room  for  such  as  we, 

That  thy  broad  bosom  hath  solatium. 

If  be  the  grave  the  soul's  mausoleum, 

Or  lesser  secret  we  should  ask  of  thee, 

If,  or  if  not,  beyond  the  tomb  we  be, 

Quick    wake   the    soul    that    slumbers    yet    all 

dumb; 

Turn  our  eyes  inward;  still  the  self-demand; 
Thy  one  great  passion  let  us  with  thee  share 
And  love  the  seed  of  truth  that  from  thy  hand 
Silvern  and  silent  falleth  everywhere; 
Teach  us  to  search,  and  find,  and  understand 
Only  the  calm  may  husband  it  to  bear. 


[3] 


IV 


If  know  thy  cold-lipped  sages  what  they  tell, 
And  thou  mad'st  enmity  between  thy  breed, 
Thy  man  and  woman,  then  thy  truth  we  need 
To  know  thy  purpose,  for  we  know  full  well 
Thou  hadst  a  purpose,  if  on  us  befell 
What  to  our  blind  eyes  seemeth  to  impede 
Thy  all-embracing  love,  and  but  to  lead 
Thy  children  from  thee,  who  would  fain  rebel. 
Behind  thy  smiling  brow  and  tranquil  lip 
Can  there  be  bitterness  to  us,  thine  own? 
Why  didst  thou  make  the  two  thou  didst  or 
dain 

To  be  as  one,  go  each  his  way  alone, 
Shivering  in  isolation,  fellowship 
Wounded  and  sundered  'neath  the  flesh-linked 
chain  ? 


[4] 


We  think  our  travail  was  not  all  in  vain, 

We   think  we   have  not  lived  for  naught   the 

years, 

We  think  our  anguish  but  the  well  of  tears 
That  quench  the  flesh-fires,  falling  like  a  rain 
Upon  the  thirsty  spirit.     O  we  gain, 
We  know  we  profit  when  thy  prod  appears, 
We  know  he  leaves  the  brute  behind  that  hears 
The  still,  small  voices  of  the  soul  in  pain. 
If  we  not  yet  are  large  enough  to  kiss 
The  stone  we  dashed  the  foot  upon,  or  bless 
The  glory  that  was  given  us  to  bear 
So  broad1  a  burden ;  if  the  scar  yet  there, 
And  we  forget  not,  we  the  wound  hold  less 
Than  pride  for  faith  that  pointed  the  abyss. 


[5] 


VI 


We  think  at  last  we  read  aright  one  law 
And  know  why  thou  didst  lay  the  pain  between 
Thy  man  and  woman  child,  for  thou  hadst  seen 
Thy  first  plan  held  for  those  to  come,  a  flaw. 
Eternal  Parent,  thou  wouldst  fain  withdraw 
From  parentage  all  blemish  and  make  clean 
Thy  fathers  and  thy  mothers  that  demean 
The  race  through  overleaping  self,  and  awe 
Thy  children  into  guardians  ripened,  sage, 
That   still    the   small   self,    serving   the    large 

whole ; 

That  double-mothered  shall  the  offspring  wage 
A  war  more  perfect  with  the  unselfed  soul. 
O  divine  Mother,  let  thy  light  assuage 
Thy  blinded  children  groping  for  thy  goal ! 


[6] 


VII 


We  think  thou  madcst  her  to  be  his  care 
Until  thy  man  thou  didst  a  mother  make. 
We  think  thou  mad'st  her  for  the  race's  sake 
To  be  his  burden,  that  he  learn  forbear 
Unanswering  freedom,  learning  service  there ; 
Until  thy  breaker  had  unlearned  to  break 
And  learned  to  build,  to  follow  in  her  wake 
That  left  the  primal  blood-print  in  the  lair. 
And  her  thou  gavest  of  thy  mother-gift 
To  bear,  to  build,  to  love  for  sake  of  love, 
Thou  gavest  patience  place  until  the  cloud 
Of  jungle  laws  spread  o'er  thy  children  bowed 
Within  thy  forest  crucible,  shall  lift, 
And  show  a  later  law  behind,  above. 


[7] 


VIII 

We  think  thou  madest  her  his  care  to  be 
Till  thou  thy  father  madest  mother-wise, 
Till  learned  thy  wild  one  from  her  quiet  eyes 
To  cherish  peace  with  those  that  wider  see 
Than  first  desire,  until  as  devotee 
He  learned  from  her  slow  fingers  to  devise 
In  patience,  building,  to  make  sacrifice, 
Himself  the  altar  where  himself  shall  free 
The  race  of  his  inherited  bequest, 
Losing  the  hot  blood  of  belligerents, 
The  raw  destroyers  in  his  thews  to  mould 
In  her  upbuilding  essence,  where,  caressed, 
The  altruistic  bosom  shall  enfold 
The  rampant  one  in  her  munificence. 


[8] 


IX 


We  think  we  read  aright  one  law  of  thine 
And  on  the  upward  march  of  us,  thine  own, 
We  learn  thou  thrustest  back  him  that  alone 
Feedeth  upon  his  heart ;  that  thou  thy  sign 
Givest  one  step  the  more  to  come  divine 
Unto  thy  large  heart  that  move  the  stone 
From  out  another's  footway,  that  enthrone 
The  good  of  many  on  the  sybarite-shrine. 
See  we  the  mother  of  thy  caravan 
Leading  earth's  children  'neath  the  white-faced 

moon 

Whither  we  know  not;  on  her  bosom's  span 
Civilization,  with  maternal  croon 
Lulls  her  undisciplined,  the  maddened  clan. 
Mad  ego,  war,  destruction,  spent  triune. 


[9] 


Now  is  thy  man  into  a  mother  made, 
Now  riotings  of  self  doomed  on  thy  earth, 
Now  may  thy  children  sit  in  merrier  mirth 
And  small  content,  and  friendship's  calm  invade 
New  territory.     Thou  art  not  afraid 
To  test  thy  doubled  parentage,  new  birth 
Of  double  freedom,  single  strength  given  girth 
In  that  thou  leadest  this  thy  last  crusade. 
As  into  mother  madest  thou  thy  man 
So  take  thy  woman  in  thy  larger  home 
And  make  of  her  a  patriot  in  the  world. 
O  fearless  thou,  that  since  thy  day  began 
Dar'dst  set  thy  foot  through  dark  new  way  to 

roam 
When  progress  went  before  with  flag  unfurled! 


[10] 


XI 


It  may  be  that  thy  best  alone  link  on 

Thy  endless  chain  of  better  linked  with  best, 

And  they  that  fit  the  baldric  of  thy  test 

Given  thy  reward  of  wider  environ. 

We  know  that  since  thy  early  days  now  gone 

Thy  victors  left  their  own  the  earned  bequest 

Of  cunning  voices  murmuring  in  the  breast 

Of  forest  wisdom  learned  in  bitter  yon. 

But  forward  steps  a  wider  ambit  win, 

And  every  ambit  wins  a  new-writ  law; 

No  more  wood  voices  guide  thy  victors'  shape 

Though  yet  thy  many  read  by  tooth  and  claw; 

And  they  that  fit  the  baldric  of  the  ape — 

But  hush !  the  soul  is  quickening  within. 


XII 

We  cannot  fathom  all  thy  mysteries 

Nor  see  thy  wisdom  through  thy  own  wide  eyes ; 

Though  we  may  grant  that  in  thy  day  that  lies 

Far,  far  behind  us,  what  this  day  decrees 

Born  of  the  jungle,  then  was  constancy 

Unto  thy  will.     But  salutations  rise 

Fresh  for  each  coming,  and  new  sanction  cries 

From  out  transfiguration's  seething  seas. 

We  cannot  fathom  all  thy  secret  wit 

But  we  may  see  that  in  our  ripened  hour, 

Shorn  of  the  strength  that  proved'  thy  forest- 

fit, 

That  now  thy  fit  have  earned  a  richer  dower, 
They  that  are  worthless  in  the  battle-pit 
May  be  thy  worthy  comes  the  soul  in  power. 


[12] 


XIII 

Though  maimed  thy  daughter  in  the  glimmer 
ing  dawn 

When  yet  thy  children  strove  beneath  the 
weight 

Of  far  flung  mandates  that  reverberate 

From  out  the  caverns  of  the  throats  of  brawn ; 

If  it  were  even  thy  great  will  fell  pawn 

To  circumstance ;  if  chance  even  thee  frustrate ; 

Or  if  thou  parriest  her  late  hour  whose  state 

Her  captor  held  from  the  wild-wood  with 
drawn  ; — 

All  nature  changes :  into  green  the  sere ; 

New  robes  for  old ;  fresh  vesture  for  the  worn ; 

June  rioting  to  greet  the  ample  year; 

While  bird  and  bud  and  hill  and  dale  adorn 

Old  truths  with  new,  so  would  thy  girls  appear 

Reincarnated,  radiant,  new-born. 


[13] 


XIV 

If  be  her  flesh  than  his  more  poor  and  frail, 
If,  as  he  mindeth  her,  so  small  her  soul 
Beside  his  large  inbeing,  if  her  goal 
As  he  proclaimeth,  lieth  in  the  pale 
Of  his  departing  shadow,  what  avail 
Maketh  her  breath,  while  writeth  he  the  scroll 
In  wearing  letters,  of  to-day's  truth,  whole 
And  uncontested  while  his  scribes  prevail? 
But  if  she  strive  to  pierce  the  cosmic  page, 
And  if  she  lay  as  balm  against  her  pride, 
The  rubric  of  late  harvesting  the  sage 
Hath  ever  marked  to  point  their  way  so  wide, 
That  late  she  asketh  of  the  race  her  wage, 
It  may  be  large  that  she  had  long  to  bide. 


[14] 


XV 


If  right  thy  sages  of  the  ashen  brow 
(Forgetting  truth  to-day  is  morrow's  myth) 
Speaking  the  seed  that  budding  late,  more  pith 
Than  early  ripened,  they  do  but  avow 
His  body  higher ;  yet  her  ghost  thy  bow 
Likewise  to  his.    Perchance  't  were  but  the  frith 
Of  circumstance  that  swept  her  word  forthwith 
On  earlier  rock  to  sparkle,  ere  it  plough 
Through  quiet  valley.  (Who  hath  asked  of  them 
How  weigh  the  mind  and  measure  thought  and 

trace 

Inbeing's  course  on  stimulation's  wing?) 
May  she  not,  too,  find  in  their  law  a  gem, 
Avowing  hers — that  in  the  cosmic  race 
Waketh    the    last — the    greater    strength    to 

bring? 


[15] 


XVI 

As  whistling  winter  pipes  his  winds  that  leap 
From  roof  to  roof  within  the  sober  town, 
That  flute  the  hollow  flageolet's  renown 
And  call  derisively  from  spires  steep, 
As    autumn    leaves    that    herd    like    shivering 

sheep, 

Are  torn  asunder  hither,  thither,  blown: 
So  may  each  little  word  we  flaunt  be  thrown 
Idle  and  barren  in  oblivion's  heap. 
Or  when,  as  children,  to  their  wiser  run, 
Whom  dandelion's  shock  of  yellow  hair 
A  young  sun  seemeth,  born  in  garden  plot, 
The  jocund  lip  doth  jest  the  simple  one, 
Or  indignation  turn  an  outraged  stare. 
Spare  thou  the  rod,  O  Mother — he  will  not. 


[16] 


XVII 

It  may  be  some  day  we  shall  lose  our  dower, 
All  hope  departing  like  the  yesteryear, 
Gone  and  forgotten  like  the  vanished  tear 
Some  young  eye  dropped  upon  some  long  lost 

hour, 

Fallen  to  dust  with  every  radiant  flower 
That  made  the  summer  unto  thee  so  dear, 
Even  as  the  snows  of  winter  disappear 
Or  dews  that  threw  the  morn  an  opaled  shower. 
Our  hopes  like  birds  let  loose  from  prison  bars 
Fling  winged  and  warbled  incense  far,  as  yon 
Night's  far-flung  branches,  efflorescent  stars. 
And    shall    our   once-proud   birds    come   home 

again 

With  broken  wings  to  soar  no  more?     Till  then 
Wing  on,  brave  birds  of  hope,  wing  on !  wing  on ! 


[17] 


XVIII 

If  this  nor  jest,  nor  hope,  but  truth,  some  morn, 
I  know  the  comfort  dreamed  will  fade  away 
And  on  thy  cheek  a  weary  lip  will  lay : 
Yet  a  new  sorrow  have  I  this  day  borne ; — 
If  needs  thy  law  be  writ  with  bitter  thorn, 
If  of  thy  two  thou  must  the  one  betray, 
If  one  must  follow  in  the  shadow  gray, 
Then     choose     thou     me     again — 't  were     idly 

sworn — 

Thou  mad'st  us  other.     Yet  what  grief  if  he — 
He  is  my  son,  he  is  my  friend,  as  thine ; 
Spare  both,  make  thou  new  covenant  with  me, 
Our  woman-child  hath  half  this  heart  of  mine; 
And  none  would  choose  the  shadow;  give  thy 

sign; 
Make  these  thy  two  both  tender  and  both  free ! 


[18] 


XIX 

And  hear,  O  mother  of  maternity, 

A  new  truth  hurled  from  thy  rebellious  child: 

Give  me  the  little  one,  yea,  reconciled 

Mad'st  thou  thy  mother  all  eternity 

To  bring  thy  men  and  women  forth  to  see 

The  splendours  of  thy  breast,  to  hear  the  wild 

Brave  "din  'twixt  two  long  silences,"  exiled 

For  one  brief  hour  from  dark  tranquillity. 

But  know  thy  child  hath  culled  a  little  grain 

Of  wisdom  ripening  for  who  understands ; 

As  April  bears,  to  pray  for  harvest  lands, 

On  every  leaf  a  rosary  of  rain, 

So  life  and  learning  with  their  tear-drenched 

hands 
Lay  on  my  cheek  the  rosary  of  pain. 


[19] 


XX 

I  stand  as  one.     Now  shall  not  anything 
Nor  any  other  be  for  me  the  whole 
Of  breathing  and  of  being.     The  dulled  soul 
Hath  need  of  sustenance  and  cherishing 
Like   as   the  heart.     Daughter   and   son   shall 

cling 

In  these  warm  arms  the  while  I  pay  the  toll 
To  tender  need;  but  ripened,  I  enroll 
Only  the  measured  in  my  gathering. 
The  one  is  thine.     'Neath  tranquil  starry  glow 
May  each  thy  children  lifting  up  his  face, 
Find  his  given  nook,  and  falling  into  place, 
With  steadfast  footing  join  the  ranks  that  go 
To  meet  the  first,  await  the  last,  and  be 
In  cosmic  dust  lost  everlastingly. 


[20] 


XXI 

In  all  thy  children  doth  thy  love  impart 

A  tender  homage  to  thy  motherhood, 

In  all  thou  madest  that  is  wise  and  good 

It  is  thy  motherhood  keeps  warm  the  heart. 

Dear  mother  of  us  all,  that  mother  art 

In  wisest  wish,  that  as  thy  children  stood 

Before    the    beckoning    hands    of    would    and 

should 
(Sweet  wooing  would!)     they  strike  the  wish 

athwart, 

Embrace  the  truth,  thine  only  counselor — 
May  even  thy  mothers,  motherhood  to  face, 
Know  that  in  simple  goodness  there  is  grace 
For  greater;  see  in  calmer  mother-lore 
That  each  alone,  as  one,  takes  highest  place ; 
See  high  thy  mother ;  see  thy  woman  more. 


[21] 


XXII 

Yea  I  am  I.     And  as  myself,  as  one, 
I  meet  as  ne'er  I  met  before  the  strife 
'Twixt  love  and  bone  and  blood.     O  teach  me, 

life! 

And  bear  me  in  thy  bosom,  as  a  nun 
Beareth   the   heavenly    Bridegroom !     O    warm 

sun, 
Smile  thou  on  my  cold  qualm !     Thy  drum  and 

fife, 

My  soul,  wake  to  the  battle !     As  the  leaf 
Trembles  in  autumn,  tremble  thou,  tremble  on ! 
Hence!     ye    that    conquered    by     your     false 

alarms ! 

All  ye  defeats  I  meet  ye  once  again ! 
And  when  that  once  I  lost  I  reattain, 
Or  that  I  never  had  I  do  enclose, 
O    then,    Great    Universe,    stretch    forth    thine 

arms 
And  gather  me  to  rest  in  thy  repose ! 


XXIII 

I  will  anoint  my  spirit  with  thine  own, 
O  thou  Great  Universe  that  holdest  me! 
Make  bold  mine  eye  to  bear  the  gaze  of  thec, 
Make  bold  mine  eye  to  see  me  all  alone ! 
Lift  up  my  blood,  rekindle  thou  my  bone, 
Open  thy  flood-gates,  O  my  heart,  and  see 
Victor  and  vanquished  in  the  fire  to  be 
Gathered  in  ashes  and  in  seed  resown ! 
How  excellent  the  strife  that  is  within; 
How  beautiful  the  truth  thou  would'st  upraise ; 
How  fair  the  fallen  honour  to  win  o'er ; 
How  good  the  peace  found  after  many  days ! 
Shall  not  thy  wrath  sustain  thee  and  restore? 
Peace,  peace,  be  still,  my  soul.     I  enter  in. 


[23] 


XXIV 

Mother  of  mine,  when  I  am  weary  see 

How  even  as  thou  art,  is  thy  flesh  and  bone, 

How  even  as  thou  art,  am  I  all  alone, 

How  even  as  thou,  merged  in  mine  own  decree. 

Kithless  apart,  yet  will  I  ever  be 

Kin  unto  all;  like  every  seed  that  sown 

One  with  the  hand  that  sows  it.     O  mine  own 

Fold  me  again  quiescent  unto  thee! 

When  all  thy  mysteries  mock  me  no  more, 

When  back  I  gave  thee  all  that  mine  to  give, 

When  drained  dry  I  need  no  longer  live 

And  I,  returning,  seek  thy  gracious  breast, 

Then  offer  me  oblivion  as  of  yore 

And  let  me  find  peace  in  thy  unrest. 


[24] 


PART  II 


XXV 

CONSORT  and  comrade,  if  you  will,  my  friend, 

Of  all  that  lies  between  us  to  be  told, 

Mark    here    the    poorer    scribe    whose    labour 

scrolled 

The  ruder  word  to  serve  some  singer's  end. 
Some  day  a  singing  one  shall  music  lend 
And  to  this  theme  of  discords  manifold 
Open  her  lips   and  into  music  mould 
The  dissonances  poorer  skill  attend. 
Hers  be  a  subtler  tongue ;  a  better  brain ; 
A  deeper  passion,  reined;  and  higher  art 
To  bare  each  nuance  of  a  restless  pain. 
Here  but  the  elemental  word,  the  part 
By  which  the  broad  sketch,  obvious,  may  gain 
A  closer  reading  of  our  two-fold  heart. 


[27] 


XXVI 

O  for  a  poet,  for  a  woman's  toll 
To  this  high  poinance  leaping  from  its  thrall ! 
O  that  her  tongue  were  bitterer  than  gall! 
O  that  her  bitterness  were  aureole 
Upon  the  brow  of  her  that  not  the  whole 
Forgets  in  hers,  the  half!     So  keep  for  all 
Her  large  heart  pure  and  undefiled  to  call 
The  thousand  passions  slumbering  in  her  soul ! 
Lend  her  thy  wrath,  O  Job !  David,  thy  song ! 
Open  her  lips  and  let  her  heart  pour  forth 
The  wrong  heaped  up  five  thousand  years  and 

more — 

If  so  her  heart  be  pure  and  undefiled 
And  in  her  spirit  that  of  all  the  earth 
And  in  her  love  the  love  of  all  mankind! 


[28] 


XXVII 

Kinsman  and  comrade,  mine  the  ages  through, 
I  fain  would  find  you  in  my  hour  of  need, 
And  yet  the  heart  of  me  warns  me  take  heed : 
This  friend,  he  will  not  lift  his  hand  for  you. 
It  is  not  often  that  my  heart  withdrew 
Love's  loyalty  from  love  and  lovers'  creed ; 
Rather  love  wrongs  me  that  his  favours  plead: 
Yours  all  I  have,  and  am,  and  hope,  and  do. 
O  you  that  are  so  strong  and  free  and  wise, 
Is  there  no  love  unasking,  faith  divine 
Sprung  from  an  ancient  anguish  of  the  brain? 
What  shall  it  profit  me  that  much  I  gain 
And  lose  the  love  to  share  in  grace:  the  sign 
For  consummation,  for  uncovered  eyes? 


[29] 


XXVIII 

I  know  that  I  must  find  my  light  within 

And  be  myself  my  faith,  my  hope,  my  guide ; 

I  know  that  I  must  make  me  purified 

Of  all  consent  by  any  aid  to  win 

That  comes  not  from  myself.     I  would  begin 

To  sow  in  me  the  passion  and  the  pride 

For  wisdom,  beauty,  truth,  and  learning  wide 

As  that  stern  freedom  that  shall  rein  me  in. 

But  you  that  are  so  strong  and  free  and  wise: 

If  not  the  spirit  leaps  with  mind  to  be 

Grown  beautiful  in  magnanimity; — 

Turn  a  deaf  ear  again,  darken  my  eyes, 

Offer  no  fruit  from  bare,  polluted  Tree, 

Nor  any  wisdom  that  is  only  wise. 


[30] 


XXIX 

I  would  that  I  might  never  learn  withhold 
A  hand  to  lift  a  veil  from  one  dark  brow ; 
Yet  I  rejoice  that  all  unsuccored  now 
I  would  the  vapours  from  my  eyes  unfold. 
A  want  to  want  no  aid,  alone  to  mould 
My  own  transfiguration,  springs  to  vow 
Labouring  allegiance ;  but  that  I  endow 
My  tender  ones  with  cheer,  one  plea  were 

told  :— 

Mock  me  no  more.     Even  I  would  see  the  light 
Swung  from  the  towers  of  truth  by  seer  and 

sage. 

I  ask  no  nearer  lamp  to  pierce  the  dim 
Of  those  that  groping  go  with  willing  limb; 
But  would  no  hand-flung  stones  with  earth's 

requite 
The  stumbling  follower's  earliest  pilgrimage. 


[31] 


XXX 

'Tis  all  I  ask.     Yet  O  beloved  friend, 
When  I  bethink  me  't  was  a  race  we  ran, 
We  two,  a  brother,  and  a  sister  wan, 
To  find  the  radiance  in  a  rainbow's  end; 
Had  mine  but  been  the  swifter  foot  to  bend, 
Did  no  wind  billows  in  my  raiment  fan 
To  swerve  me  backward  from  the  far  divan 
Awarding  judgments  where  the  glories  blend: — 
I  know  my  step  had  tarried  to  your  own 
And  wilful  faltered  that  we  keep  apace, 
And  had  the  breezes  me  yet  onward  blown, 
And    spurred   my    foot    to    take    the    forward 

place, 

I  know  that  I  had  sighed  to  go  alone 
And  back  to  you  had  turned  a  wistful  face. 


[32] 


XXXI 

If  it  were  poor  to  tarry,  sin  to  fall, 
Then  were  it  poor  and  were  it  sin  to  grieve ; 
But  were  it  love  that  bade  a  comrade  cleave, 
To  lend  his  hand  and  heart  to  lean  a  wall ; 
And  since  love  be  not  heritage  for  all 
But  the  last  gift  the  born  of  earth  achieve ; 
Then  who  shall  say  it  poor,  a  friend  to  leave, 
Or  sin,  to  linger  loyal  in  her  call? 
Yet  't  were  not  given  to  falter  or  remain ; 
But  it  were  given  to  harbour  manifest 
A  little  thought  like  low  memorial  pain 
Stirring  within  to  smooth  its  troubled  nest; 
That  sighed  the  friend  lost  in  abundant  gain 
Had  shared  the  sweetness  of  a  bittered  rest. 


[S3] 


XXXII 

If  it  be  so  that  I  am  weak  and  frail 
Would  you  not  then  hold  out  your  hand  to  me, 
Strive  teach  me  share  your  higher  ecstasy 
At  earth-want  lost,  and  found  a  holy  grail?. 
If  it  be  so  that  I  am  wan  and  pale 
For  outer  law,  not  for  the  in-decree 
Would  you  not  then  yet  more  my  bondage  see, 
And  seeing,   stoop  with  largess  to  avail? 
(And  let  me  whisper:  were  it  so  that  you 
Had  made,  or  helped  to  make,  my  bonds,  then  I 
Have  title  to  your  effort,  and  your  proof 
Of  higher  caste  that  throws  a  wider  eye 
Than  its   own  shadow.)      But  I   only   sue: 
Your  travesty  be  fair,  in  fair  behoof. 


[34] 


XXXIII 

If  once  my  feet  a  wider  way  have  trod, 
If  once  a  wider  wold  my  eyes  have  seen, 
Perchance  my  eager  hands  will  pause  to  glean 
And  reap  a  golden  grain  from  out  the  sod ; 
And  are  my  feet  too  poor  for  rough  roads  shod, 
My  eyes  too  blind  for  splendour  of  noon's  sheen, 
My  listless  hands  the  harvest  waive,  serene, 
If  empty-armed  I  backward,  homeward  plod ; 
Yet  who  sliall  frown  that  I  essayed  to  go — 
Who'd  stand,  no  poorer  than  I  turned  away, 
Again  at  the  old  doorway  (did  I  know 
From  bitter  parting  that  but  one  path  lay 
For  woman's  footsteps :  where  the  embers  throw 
Their    shadow    phantoms    on    the    hearthstone 
gray) ? 


[35] 


XXXIV 

Yet  it  may  be  that  I  shall  not  return 

As   I  departed,  bringing  in  despair 

Profound  that  I  an  untrue  altar  there 

Had  builded  where  the  hearth-fires  subtly  burn. 

It  may  be  that  I  carry  with  me  stern 

And  sad  a  reckoning  to  the  fire-side  fair 

That    warmed   the   flesh   in   its    rose-shadowed 

snare 

And  held  the  heart  a  captive,  there  to  spurn 
The  murmuring  voices  of  the  mind  and  soul. 
And  though  your  soul  closed  mine  the  innerest 

door 

And  bade  me  serve  the  body,  satisfied, 
I  shall  not  rest  me  ever  anymore 
Till  our  two  spirits,  searching  side  by  side, 
Drift,  singing  in  accord,  across  the  Goal. 


[36] 


XXXV 

My  baby  dear,  the  white  moon  in  his  bower 
That  watches  night-long  over  you  and  me, 
Is  not  so  old  as  that  long  memory 
That  guards  the  tender  ere  in  full  they  flower. 
My  baby  dear,  if  from  some  unknown  power 
The  mother  that  so  loves  you  heard  a  plea: 
A  mother  in  a  wider  world  to  be, 
To   mother  all  men   in  a   coming  hour: — 
Somewhere  in  God's  inviolable  plan  we  know 
Your  innocent  sweet  head's  least  golden  hair 
Is  numbered  and  remembered  and  held  dear ; 
If  came  your  mother  wise,  as  loving,  here, 
Nor  yet  the  smallest  were  forgotten  there, 
Love's  vigilers,  baby,  drew  but  closer  so. 


[37] 


XXXVI 

I  count  the  years  my  mothers  watched  the  fire, 
I  search  the  past  they  gave  into  your  hand. 
But  O,  dear  friend,  I  do  not  understand — 
I  speak  with  heart  too  grave  and  full,  for  ire — 
What  have  you  done  with  her,  who  as  empire 
Gave  you  her  life  to  sway  with  waft  of  wand? 
I  am  not  comforted  that  your  command 
Answered  her  want,  or  murmured  her  desire. 
Though  many  another  looks  content  behind, 
Feeling  no  tumult  rising  to  the  throat, 
Reading  in  calm  the  page  of  womankind, 
There  are  the  all-forgiving,  that  the  debt 
Proud  eyes  to  honoured  filiation  note 
Must  still  remember,  cannot  yet  forget. 


[38] 


XXXVII 

I  am  not  comforted  when  I  behold 
The  pages  of  the  mothers  of  the  race, 
I  am  not  comforted  that  their  one  place 
Is  in  man's  arms,  when  mindful  how  of  old 
Their  womanhood  was  cast  into  the  mould 
Of  his  desire.     I  see  not  his  embrace 
Winning  from  both,  the  winged  angel  trace 
Too  near  clasp  crushes,  to  unfan,  unfold. 
I  am  not  comforted  that  he  alone 
Is  wise  and  pure  and  large  and  calm  to  speak 
For  all  the  race.     I  deem  the  woman's  own 
Voice  from  the  woman-half,  though  trembling, 

weak, 

In  new-tried  effort,  folds  in  undertone 
A  balm  for  world-wounds  weeping  through  the 

bleak. 


[39] 


XXXVIII 

You  wrote  my  page.     Go  read  the  chronicle, 
Call  me  ungenerous,  if  you  will,  and  cold, 
And  tell  me  that  it  is  not  mine  to  mould 
Words  that  disquiet  in  my  lips  instil. 
But  I  am  not  so  small  and  mean  and  ill 
Of  grace  that  I  the  world-work  not  behold 
Wrought  all  by  you.      (I,  looking  from  my  wold 
Nor  saw  nor  succored)  and  verily — I  thrill ! 
You  wrote  my  page.     Go  read  the  document, 
And  think  me  cold  of  comfort  if  you  will; 
But  I  can  praise  too,  and  the  wonder  lies 
Wide  on  my  lips  and  deep  within  my  eyes ; 
If  it  is  mine  to  make  arbitrament : 
Brother,  your  work  is  grand,  magnificent! 


[40] 


XXXIX 

A  ploughman  lone  you  loomed  the  bleak  dawn 

through, 

But  glad  against  the  harvest  moon  you  stand. 
You  rose  the  morning  for  the  arid  land 
To  sow  the  seed  of  all  we  know  and  knew; 
And  with  the  sweated  brow  in  evening  dew 
Poured  forth  fulfillment  from  laborious  hand; 
The  grain-bag  scattered  in  the  desert  sand — 
Behold!     The  beautiful,  the  good,  the  true! 
(Bar  woman,  sold  to  aid)  all  salient  gain 
In  granary  or  reliquary  yours, 
And  even  the  arrogant  stars  in  timeless  tours 
Come  when  you  call  them  with  their  retinue. 
The  while  I  grant  all  this  so  free,  so  fain, 
Ah  yes,  I  grant  it,  I  am  jealous  too. 


[41] 


XL 

I  would  that  I  might  say :     This  is  the  least ; 
Or  this  the  "most  unkindest  cut  of  all ;" 
Yet  it  is  one  of  many  steeped  in  gall: 
My  life  in  you,  from  Life  I  pass  unmissed. 
Unknown,  unbidden,  I  sit  not  to  the  feast 
But  with  my  ear  pressed  to  the  outer  wall 
I  hear  the  higher  invocation  call 
To  saint  and  sage  and  babe  and  bard  and 

priest. 

This  wounds  my  honour  of  a  verity : 
That  I  not  share  the  glory  of  mankind 
That  reined  the  heart  it  reared,  and  builded 

mind, 

And  gave  the  soul  the  highest  sovereignty. 
I  would  the  women  coming  after  me 
New    crowns    of   bay,    with    old    sweet    myrtle 

twined. 


[42] 


XLI 

I  love  the  huge  sphynx  of  the  desert  more 
Than  pretty  carving  on  a  cherry  stone. 
I  love  wild  Triton  when  the  horn  is  blown 
That  sends  the  flying  columns  in  uproar: 
Column  following  column,  his  artillery  pour, 
Till  the  white  cavalcades  ride  on  alone 
Foaming  at  mouth,  and  mad  with  monotone 
The  hoofs  of  ocean  thunder  on  the  shore ! 
I  love  a  woman's  tender  sacrament, 
But  ne'er  so  sacrificial  love  goes  cheap. 
I  love  a  woman  grand,  belligerent, 
Lifts  one  his  voice  to  lay  her  truth  asleep. 
O  soul,  in  some  high  passion  torn  and  spent, 
How  art  thou  radiant  in  thy  discontent  I 


[43] 


XLII 

There  is  a  loyalty  more  true  by  far 
Than  other  loyalties  however  dear, 
There  is  an  honour  and  a  faith  so  near 
That  may  the  love-bond  never  more  debar ; 
And  mate  and  brother  and  the  friends  that  are 
So  loved  of  woman,  since  the  yesteryear 
And  till  last  morrow  mornings  do  appear 
Not  in  first  purple,  but  in  cinnebar, 
A  royal  red,  and  royal  purple  hold 
For  constancy  to  self  and  to  the  race ; 
For  woman  brings  remembrance  that  the  mould 
Of  motherhood  is  womanhood's  to  trace. 
Now  first  for  self,  then  for  man  manifold, 
Loyal  and  royal  blooms  the  rose  of  grace. 


[44] 


XLIII 

I  love  not  her  that  eager  drinks  the  wine 
Which  flattery  and  condescension  quaff, 
That  drains  the  last  drop  from  the  full  caraffe 
Of  those  who  with  the  younger  poets  dine ; 
And  drinking,  looks  not  through  the  crystal 
line, 

Nor  hears  within  the  bubble  subtle  laugh, 
Nor  sees  the  sparkle  as  truth's  epitaph, 
Dazed  with  the  fragrance  of  the  honeyed  vine. 
I  love  not  her  that  loves  not  womanhood 
Too  deep  to  love  a  shallow  chivalry, 
I  love  not  her  that  never  haughty  stood 
(In  some  young  girl- time,  ere  serenity) 
And  vowed  a  day  of  reckoning  were  good 
With  the  sweet  word  that  hides  its  tyranny, 


[45] 


XLIV 

There  is  a  hope  we  bear  within  us  yet, 

That  are  the  praises  of  her  lovers  true: 

Our  lady  lovely  as  the  jasmine  hue, 

Our  lady  tender  as  a  canzonet, 

Is  our  fair  lady  like  the  violet, 

In  modest  fragrance,  like  the  tranquil  dew 

So  bright,  so  chaste,  and  like  unwithering  yew 

Erect  and  constant,  and  of  finest  fret: — 

As  naught  corrupts  the  law  of  dew  or  flower 

(As  't  were  the  fragrance  in  the  lily  died 

For  night  wind,   noon   sun,   or  the   drummer 

shower) 

So  woman-fragrance,  were  it  given  to  bide 
In  shelter  only,  came  no  regal  dower 
Commanding  homage  and  unbending  pride. 


[46] 


XLV 

How  richer  are  the  spices  of  the  bud 

That  swings  its  censer  on  the  wind  and  rain! 

What  profiteth  a  tenderness  that  slain 

And  sullied  lies  in  April's  earliest  flood? 

Did  ever  primrose  rouge  with  flaunting  rudd? 

In  busy  market-stall  near  poppy  lain, 

With  thyme  and  parsley  on  a  huckster's  wain, 

What  purple  violet  forgets  her  blood? 

Where  joy   and  beauty   spring  from  thriving 

root, 

They  perish  only  in  the  flagrant  storm ; 
Only  the  weak  flower  broken  lies  ere  yet 
It  spent  its  little  day  through  wind  and  wet. 
Mean  you  the  woman  grace  is  but  a  shoot 
Each  rude  wind  may  bedraggle  and  transform? 


[47] 


XLVI 

And  what  of  gardens  bared  and  unconfined 
Where  wanton  storms  at  sweet  will  havoc  fling? 
What  of  a  garden  where  the  tares  upspring 
Till  flower  and  fruit  for  sun  and  air  had  pined? 
What  of  a  gardener  that  no  bower  shrined 
For     frost-fall's     vintage — does     he    hope    to 

swing 

A  pregnant  sickle,  and  the  vintage  bring 
Untasting  of  the  bitter  of  the  wind? 
What  of  a  fruit  that  mellowed  in  an  air 
Polluted  so  no  flower  could  breathe  and  live? 
What  if  the  gardener  were  to  come  aware 
That  what  is  choice  and  fine  (nor  fugitive) 
Might  there  a  place  find  where  such  graces  bear 
The  purpling  clusters  it  is  theirs  to  give? 


[48] 


XLVII 

I  stand  no  more  in  that  young  haughty  way 
(Youth  is  so  haughty)    and  with  cold  proud 

eyes 

Turn  from  a  hand  that  at  my  service  lies : 
"I  need  not  you  who  come  at  this  late  day." 
No  more  so  young  as  I  was  yesterday, 
I  would  not  scorn  a  word  that  may  be  wise 
Nor  spurn  a  hand  that  with  my  own  unties 
One  smallest  knot  of  those  that  me  waylay. 
And  you  that  went  so  long  in  world  so  wide, 
You  that  have  sat  so  long  at  wisdom's  feet, 
May  know  we  too  have  lived  that  lay  aside 
The  vanity  the  dearer  needs  must  cheat, 
May  know  we  too  have  learned  that  would  abide 
By  wells  of  wisdom,  though  we  humble  eat. 


[49] 


XLVIII 

There  is  not  anything  that  life  can  give 
To  him  that  has  not  given  his  life  in  turn, 
With  gall  and  wormwood  we  the  soul  do  earn, 
And  who  forgave  not  is  not  ripe  to  live, 
Who  knew  no  anguish  is  calm's  fugitive, 
Who  never  drank  from  out  the  bitter  urn, 
Who  on  no  altar  laid  his  flesh  to  burn ; — 
Ne'er  saw  his  spirit  the  cold  ashes  leave 
And  hold  communion  with  the  watching  Whole, 
Not  on  his  cheek  the  breath  of  stars  left  trace, 
Not  him  low  voices  call  from  pole  to  pole, 
Ne'er  heard  he  footsteps  of  the  eerie  race 
That  pierce  upon  the  brow  the  aureole, 
Nor  with  his  God  stood  ever  face  to  face. 


[50] 


XLIX 

Like  as  our  brothers  of  the  green  we  bow 
To  friend,  to  foe,  to  wind  and  storm  and  sleet. 
Like  as  our  brothers  't  is  the  bread  we  eat, 
The  way  we  won  our  bread,  the  reckoning  how, 
That  made  us  what  we  were,  what  we  are  now, 
(And  what  we  will  be)  :   from  the  flock's  low 

bleat 

An  ancient  nation  went  to  tend  the  wheat, 
A  race  of  shepherds  husbanding  the  plow 
Till  followers  of  Christ  denounced  His  kin, 
Forcing  the  Israelite  upon  the  mart, 
(Whose  tie  diluted  with  the  origin 
Of  trade  Phoenician  merchant-men  gave  start) 
Till  shepherd,  plowman,  merchant-man,  merge  in 
A  marked  people,  bred  by  bread  apart. 


[51] 


You  are  my  bread,  my  roof,  my  wherewithal. 
So  have  you  gathered  me  into  your  hand 
And  held  me  in  the  hollow,  to  expand, 
Or  crush,  or  fondle,  worship,  or  let  fall. 
The  mother  of  the  green  is  not  so  small 
Before  her  consort  helpless  thus  to  stand, 
That  serves  her  nurslings',   and  her  own,  de 
mand, 

And  leaps,  a  colleague,  to  each  forest  call. 
I  will  not  eat  your  bread,  I  will  be  proud ; 
The  loaf  of  life  my  eager  hands  would  share ; 
My  long  served  lips  taste  of  a  self-served  wine ; 
The  bed  I  rest  in  my  own  hands  prepare ; 
And  with  the  outer  eye  close-shuttered,  bowed, 
Kneel  for  my  sanction  at  the  inner  shrine. 


[52] 


LI 


How  often  I  have  turned  from  you  away, 
I  knew  not  why,  perhaps,  or  knew  too  well ; 
A  wall  of  stone  upreared  before,  or  fell 
In  crumbling  ashes,  mingling  clay  with  clay. 
I  have  not  seldom  turned  my  eyes  astray 
(From  whence  so  fondly  they  once  looked  to 

dwell) 
Barren  of  hope — for  what?     Ah,  who  shall 

tell— 

We  only  knew  we  faced  a  colder  day. 
There   loomed    the   wall    between   us,    dust    or 

stone, 

Between  us  twain  eclipsed  to  mutual  one; 
But  when  my  eyes  look  in  my  baby's  own 
(Als  ere  again  were  sundered  we  in  two) 
Where  is  the  hardened  calmness — orizon ! 
See  how  my  eyes  are  wet  with  love  for  you. 


[53] 


LII 

No,  't  is  not  true.     That  earlier  hour  is  past 
I  hear  but  one  voice,  make  but  one  demand, 
When  of  God's  all,  't  is  mine  to  understand 
Only  fair  love,  while  all  else  in  the  vast 
Unfathomable  infinitude  he  cast 
Before  me  leaves  me  cold.     Some  other  hand 
Than  fair  love's  beckons  me,  some  larger  land 
Than  sweet  Arcadia  holds  me  home  at  last. 
No,  't  is  not  true.     It  is  not  true  that  love 
(Love  that  so  fair  is)  is  my  only  lord 
To  hold  me  ever  on  his  breast  impearled. 
There  is  a  higher  power  my  lord  above, 
Than  love's,  I  hear  the  richer,  fuller,  chord 
That  calls  me  live  for  God  and  all  the  world ! 


[54] 


LIII 

We  live  alone.     Love  has  not  any  power 

To  tread  the  sanctuaries  of  the  soul; 

Yea,  hand  in  hand  may  two  together  stroll 

Into  the  hush  of  the  illumined  hour; 

But  each  in  his  own  hand  must  seize  his  dower 

In  that  brief  moment  when  the  gray  mists  roll 

From  his  dark  eye-lids,  and  the  groped-for  goal 

Glimmers  a  halo  like  a  star-dipped  tower. 

There  lies  within  a  crypt  so  sacred,  own, 

The  nearest  may  not  enter  in  so  far, 

There  is  no  handclasp  underneath  the  stone, 

No  friend  to  share  the  mildew  and  the  rust, 

Nor  any  love  to  call  an  avatar, 

And  one  by  one  we  sink  into  the  dust. 


[55] 


LIV 

The  wisest  of  all  mothers  taught  us  this: 
To  eat  and  drink  and  merry  be  and  die ; 
And  we  the  legions  of  the  earth  go  by 
Dumbly  contented.      (Like  the  chrysalis 
Not  ours  to  dream  of  metamorphosis.) 
Thus  to  the  grave  we  go  by  paths  that  lie 
Before  the  threshold  of  the  cradled  eye, 
Crowding  the  warm  way  to  the  cold  abyss. 
But  some  there  be  that  leave  the  peopled  din 
To  find  a  light  for  those  that  bold  would  go ; 
Humbly  for  one  small  fagot  searching,  lo ! 
They  find  the  gate  and  sound  the  clarion 
Before  the  House  of  God.     We  follow  in. 
These  are  the  bitter-steeped  that  lead  us  on. 


[56] 


LV      i 

This  were  the  spirit  one  would  fain  foretell, 

As  were  a  stalwart  stooping  as  her  guide: 

Lady,  we  two  may  labour  side  by  side 

Nor  yet  in  asons  half  our  goal  compel. 

He  only  lives,  who  quickens  to  the  spell 

Of  some  large  spirit,  though  he  swept  no  stride 

Beyond  the  cold  stones  that  the  cloistered  hide ; 

Then  leave  the  hearth  or  linger,  only  well 

Let  you  your  love  magnanimous  so  be 

No  four  walls  may  constrain  it.     Willingly 

Bend   to  the   cosmic   love.     The  thorn,   neath 

bay, 

Crowned  in  the  wise  wide  world,  is  not  forgot, 
Though  laurel  arches  bridge  the  winner's  way 
And  regal  cypress  grenadier  the  spot. 


[57] 


LVI 

Sometimes  I  sought  the  light-house  steep  and 

stark 

That  stood  knee-deep  upon  the  sands  o'  sea ; 
When  spring  and  hope  swept,  urging,  over  me 
To  drive  me  from  my  corner  in  the  dark. 
The   child  beneath'  the   cloak,    forth  with   the 

lark 

I  sought  the  light  for  each  at  dusk  swung  free; 
But  ne'er  a  goodman  told  where  it  might  be ; 
The  student,  scholar,  smiled  upon  my  cark. 
At  twilight  loomed  the  tower,   and  with  slow 

pace 

I  climbed  the  winding  stairway  steep  and  high, 
Till  at  the  keeper's  door — a  hermitage 
That  grudged  me  entrance — at  the  shutter,  I, 
A  humble  acolyte  in  pilgrimage, 
Searched  for  a  sign  the  noble,  chastened  face. 


[58] 


LVII 

"The    sage    is    honour-bound,"    low,    courage 

purled ; 

"Others  may  scoff,  or  stand  indifferently, 
But  wisdom  sought,  when  hopeless,  most  must  be 
A    cause   for   tears.*'     Thus   hope   me   inward 

whirled. 

"The  blazing  pennants  beauty,  truth,  unfurled 
Over  all  earth,  that  all  the  race  might  see — 
"Lady,  forgive  me,  but  your  place —  "  quoth  he, 
"You  are  not  of,  but  for,  the  race,  the  world !" 
I  touched  his  books,  saw  badges  honour  won. 
"If  shared  by  woman  have  they  still  their 

worth? 

But  mothers  holy — crowned  by  all  on  earth — 
Spread  for  my  way  the  cloak  of  chivalry ; 
But  no  light  streamed  the  unrailed   stairway 

down, 
And  ere  my  feet  untangled  clicked  a  key. 


[59] 


LVIII 

If  on  that  new-found  shore  I  walk  the  strand 

As  those  who  would  forget,  yet  straightway  flee 

To  hear  the  dull  despair  of  desolate  sea, 

To  scan  a  deep  that  laves  no  fatherland; 

If  there  I  find  upon  the  dunes,  the  sand, 

The  pink  ear  ocean  lends  to  memory, 

The  waves'  pale  lips  that  with  eternity 

Murmur  a  mother-tongue  they  understand: — 

Unwelcomed  foreigner,  no  lip,  no  ear 

Can  comfort  me  or  hear  my  ancient  grief, 

Till  ear  to  ear  old  recollections  wake. 

But  when  the  lips  the  primal  past  forsake: 

The  valorous  brine  beats  up  the  sunlit  reef; 

Laughing,  the  ripples  trip  it  o'er  the  mere ! 


[60] 


LIX 

As  little  children  let  their  lanterns  fly, 
My  light  I  fain  would  lift  as  in  a  bowl, 
And  I,  a  world-child,  from  my  hands  to  roll 
Send  forth  a  white  moon  swimming  in  the  sky ; 
Or,  striding  through  the  shuffling  clouds  that 

Ue, 

A  pilot-star  that  beats  the  azurn  shoal. 
Alas !  my  light  is  but  as  living  coal 
That  burning  hearts  enkindle  or  they  die. 
And  yet,  what  though  my  wick  still  fail  the 

night? 

My  tinselled  crystal  globe  as  bold  as  youth 
Fall  shattered,  wide-blown  by  its  own  hot  aim? 
Or  if  there  be  not  any  fire  in  truth, 
I,  who  in  darkness  learn  to  yearn  for  light, 
May  as  the  touchwood  but  await  the  flame. 


[61] 


LX 


And  though  in  moments  I  am  overborne 
And  would  be  gathered  in  a  perfect  rest, 
And  safe  and  sworn  lie,  as  upon  his  breast 
The  frail  white  flower  of  the  Finsteraarhorn ; 
First  I  must  climb,  from  gorge  and  spume  come 

torn, 

And  should  I  rise  up  from  behind  the  west, 
How  proud  the  eyelids  lift  the  tears  tell  best, 
When  from  the  Furka  I  behold  the  morn ! 
If   't  were    I   watched   with   him    the   breaking 

dawn, 
Like    Furka's    or    like   Finsteraar's    high-born 

flower, 

The  last  doubt  in  the  reeling  mist  far  gone, 
Then,  safe  and  sworn,  with  each  forever  won, 
I  shall  rise  up  caressed  and  proud  in  power, 
When  thus  with  Furka,  I  salute  the  sun ! 


[62] 


LXI 

The  hour  has  come.     I  will  arise  and  go. 

I  will  away  to  take  my  place  with  thine, 

That  knelt  so  long  before  the  olden  shrine 

Nor  stayed  my  sons  make  other  women's  woe. 

I  will  not  in  repose  prevail,  but  lo ! 

I  will  anoint  me  with  the  words  divine 

"Labour  laborious."     Labouring  for  mine 

I  will  not  stay,  I  will  arise  and  go. 

I  will  not  rest  until  I  try  anew 

In  ways  untried  before  that  may  avail, 

To  build  my  shrine  so  beautiful,  so  true, 

Out  in  the  noble  world  where  lingers  he, 

The  call  to  worship  holds  within  the  pale 

Even  those  that  now  from  far  give  praise  to  me. 


[63] 


LXII 

Your  squadrons,  all  your  ships  of  state  and  war 
Hold  more  the  prize  than  cruise  or  unsmirched 

flag. 

Lusts  of  dominion  with  the  pirate  rag 
Riddled  and  black,  sweep  up  the  harbour  shore ! 
We,  till  full  skilled,  would  learn  at  galley,  oar — 
We,  on  each  float  that  splinters  on  a  crag, 
We,  who  give  life,  that  which  you  take,  to  drag 
Downward,  our  flesh  and  bone  to  rise  no  more. 
In  the  Armadas  of  a  coming  year, 
Life  at  the  prow  hunts  the  wide  seas  for  death. 
With  mankind's  manlier  proof  of  manliness, 
These  ruptures  small,  in  small  spots,  drink  the 

less 
Prime's  priceless  blood.     Women's  cost  to  give 

men  breath 
Is  high  to  feed  the  worms  or  deck  a  bier. 


[64] 


LXIII 

Stand  back !  It  is  not  yours  to  shape  my  des 
tiny. 

When  have  I  circled  scheme  and  scope  for  you? 

If  God  that  made  you  vain  made  measured 
too — 

One  brief  hour  past  kings  scoffed  your  com 
moner's  plea 

And  pointed  nature's  law  and  God's  decree 

Till  long  denial,  breeding  doubt,  withdrew. 

Is,  then,  the  spirit's  best  dream  parvenue 

That  freedom,  inborn,  severs  memory? 

It  is  not  yours  to  shape  my  circumstance ; 

It  is  not  mine  to  charter  grace  to  you ; 

Where  humanhood  is  sound  we  know  the  clue: 

"This  is  not  given  to  give."    We  are  but  thieves 

Who  yield  as  ours,  as  boon,  the  inner  utter 
ance 

That  each,  nor  alms,  from  higher  power  re 
ceives. 


[65] 


LXIV 

Go  see  your  blood-black  hand-print  in  the  face 
Of  mankind's  mother  where  you  struck  her — 

you. 
Mother's    or    maid's,    the    sullied    scroll    read 

through : 

A  harlot  waiting  in  the  market  place ! 
And  still  your  learned  metes  his  mother  grace: 
Mother  and  harlot :  one ;  and  if  as  two, 
Lower  the  mother — there  no  "I"  the  clue 
To  what  makes  mankind:  mind:  the  man:  the 

race ! 

When  harlot,  mother:  one — in  even  one  view 
To  leave,  be  other,  were  the  onliest,  best: 
This  sage,  this  suckling  on  life's  ripened  breast, 
Teach  haste  becomes  not  cosmic-sweeping  eyes. 
Aye,  wait  an  humble  aeon  yet  or  two, 
But  give  me  back  my  ego  else  I  rise ! 


[66] 


LXV 

Mite !  Wise  in  nature's  law  and  God's  decree, 
Know  life  was  lived  ere  you,  and  from  the  dust 
Life's  mothering  reared  you — yea,  life's  moth 
ering  trust, 

Mothering  and  love — one  immortality  ! 
Your  sire  a  lowliest  cell  maternity 
Chose  that  a  soul  therein  might  yet  be  thrust, 
Culled  till  each  son  a  better  sire — august ! — 
Culled  till  her  men  stood  mightier  than  she ! 
Made  strong,  you  cowed  her,  chose — for  flesh — 

nor  saw 

Earth  still  holds  secrets  hidden  in  their  prime, 
That  purer  feet  shall  follow  God  with  awe, 
And  riper  lips  than  yours  read  rule  sublime. 
Ah,  wait  till  God's  decree  and  nature's  law 
Slip  wiser  from  the  chrysalis  of  time! 


[67] 


LXVI 

My  heart  has  found  no  grace.     Even  Arcady: 
"Drain  not  love's   cup,  for  all  its  whispering 

wine." 

And  well  I  know  the  oracle  divine 
Bids  me  go  hence  that  I  come  near  to  thee ; 
Bids  me,  if  far,  thou  comest  closer  me ; 
Murmuring,  and  be  the  tryst  *neath  palm  or 

pine — 

Of  all  the  laws  of  God,  but  one  makes  mine : 
Love,  life,  they  tarry  everlastingly. 
O  love,  we  read  thy  sibylline  lip  for  sign : 
"Aye,  love  ye  must !    But  much  beside  may  be." 
We  cannot  lose  thee.     With  conspiracy 
Thy  moorva  fast  about  us  thou  dost  twine ; 
And  in  thy  juvenescence  we  are  thine, 
Mortal,  thy  bridge  to  immortality. 


[68] 


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